


Bleed Until I Can't Breathe

by Achrya



Series: Jason and the Avengers [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham Asylum (Video Games), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Avengers Family, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Is a Good Bro, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Language, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Phil Coulson, Suck it Marvel, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4219602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Achrya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason Todd is just...well. He’s furious, has daddy issues that rival Tony's (and that's saying something), thinks rescues should involve head shots, and is running from everything he’s ever known. So naturally when he ends up in the tower Clint wants to keep him just like he kept Pietro and Wanda. Bucky actually comes out of his room to check the kid out so he pretty much has to stay as far as Steve is concerned and, honestly, being as damaged as they are skilled is basically the only thing all the Avengers have in common anyway.</p><p>Chapter 6 Excerpt: <em><br/>Fighting was just kind of what Jason did. It came to him as naturally as breathing did. Things went bad and he responded with his fists.</em><br/> </p><p>Not totally AoU compliant, but mostly.  Takes place after the Arkham Knight reveal in the game then veers. Everyone is involved but Jason and Bucky/Steve centered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can Call Me Obsessed

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own nothing  
> Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine and google docs.  
> Notes: ...Uh. *shifty look* Got to the big reveal in Arkham Knight and then ran off to write this because thoughts and feels and I’m not sure where this is going. Normally I have things plotted out but this time around we’re all gonna blunder along together.  
> I choose to envision younger Jensen Ackles as Jason...but a redhead. Gotham and Bludhaven are located in South Jersey. Trust me, it’s...kind of canon.  
> Pairings: Steve/Bucky, Phil/Clint, Wanda/Sam and Pietro/Jason or Pietro&Jason (I’m tossing things around, seeing how it flows. ) Rest is canon typical.

He ended up in New York. He probably should have run further than a few hours north to Gotham’s sister city but once he’d gotten here it had just felt right to stay. He had some of his weapons left and a little money but the general lack of identification was something of a problem so he ended up seeking out some cheap motel/apartment hybrids where they didn’t care who he was or if he stayed 3 hours, 3 days, or 3 months so long as he had cash in hand.

That had been a month ago.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing. Wasn’t sure of anything really, except that he needed to stay the fuck out of Gotham, permanently. He shouldn’t have gone back in the first place, should have found himself a pretty girl or guy or alien and built something like a normal life as far from fucking Gotham as he could get because he was out, he was honest to god fucking out and could have done anything. But Jason wasn’t that kind of person and even though any sane person would have thanked their lucky stars that were alive and more or less whole Jason...Jason had gotten drunk on the idea of revenge.

For a long time the thought of killing Bruce, of tearing him apart and making him suffer the way Jason had suffered, had been the only reason to get up in the morning, the only reason to not just give up and finish what Joker had started.

He’d thought about ending it often, especially at first before he’d gotten used to his own face again. Had stuck a gun in his mouth more times that he could count, was well acquainted with the taste of metal and gun oil on his tongue. How many times had he closed his eyes, pressed his tongue against the barrel, breathing through his nose only to end up telling himself ‘Not Yet. First Batman has to pay’? How many times had he sat in the dark, maniacal laughter trying to pull him under only to blot it out with plans on how to ruin the Bat?

And then he’d failed. One thing that had kept him on his feet since the day Joker had gleefully informed him that Bruce had taken a new Robin, had replaced him while he was still alive and in that madman’s hands, and he hadn’t been able to do it.

For all his training, all the swagger and bluster, all the tech, the plans, the sacrifices...there was just no way he could have actually killed Bruce. Fight him, burn his stupid city to the ground, kill anyone who got into his way yes but could he pull the trigger?

No. He’d been weak, had let his hand drop and then escaped, fled like a wounded animal with it’s tail between his legs.

He was holed up in Hell’s Kitchen for the time being, but looking for a new place. Hell’s Kitchen was cramped, dirty, loud, and reminded him so strongly of Gotham that sometimes when he’s walking down the street he actually forgets where he is and panic sets in and the world starts closing in around him. Sometimes he hides in alleys or on rooftops or in abandoned buildings, expecting one of the masks to drop down alongside of him or for the app he uses to listen into police radio (There really is an app for everything) to suddenly be taken over by Oracle and call his name.

Sometimes he sees them lurking around corners, in the shadows, flashes of red and green or black and blue, a swish of a cape and gunmetal gray, or perhaps the bright red of laser sights in the dark.

It never happens. With his former backers he knows it’s a matter of dropping off the radar well but when it came to his family he wasn’t sure if he’s just hidden himself that well or if they don’t care to track him down after everything he’s done.

Maybe had never cared at all.

They’d replaced him so easily after all.

He pulled down the half mask he wore to let his fingers drift over the raised J on his face, ignoring the icy bite of the wind, the Joker’s last token of affection for him and sometimes he could still feel his flesh burning and sizzling as he was branded, and thought it wouldn’t be the first time they’d abandoned him.

_“We can fix this...Together.”_

But they couldn’t. He was beyond fixing, at least in the way Batman would want him to be. He’d want Jason Todd, the loyal soldier back and he couldn’t be that person anymore. He’d spent a year with the Joker, had been beaten, broken, and then picked apart along the cracks. He’d gone from unshakeable loyalty to willing to betray Batman, willing to stand beside Joker as his ‘sidekick’, to get on his knees and do whatever it took just to make it end.

Joker had already ‘fixed’ him, already put the pieces back together in his image

You didn’t get to come back from that. He didn't anyway.

_“I’m sorry.”_

He frowned, resisting the urge to turn around and see if the Bat was actually there, speaking to him on some New York sidewalk, promising him things he’d never he able to deliver on and offering apologies that meant nothing. Instead he yanked the mask back up and continued trudging along.

He didn’t have a destination in mind, just knew he needed a new place to stay. He didn’t like to stay put in one place too long; too much time opened him up to long nights full of maniacal laughter, splashes of purple and green on the edge of shadows just as he fell asleep, and disturbingly real phantom pain. Made him itch to put the gun back into his mouth one last time.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Wasn’t sure what he was doing anymore. Going through the motions of living, he supposed, but he wasn’t sure why. What was keeping him waking up anymore? Not revenge, obviously, so what? Why couldn’t he just lie down and finally be done?

It would be so much easier.

Less painful.

Less-

Someone jostled him and he snapped back to reality, realizing belatedly that he’d found his way to the edge of some large chattering crowd. There was a buzz of excitement running through everyone, vibrating in the air. He looked around, blinking and trying to figure what could have 50 some odd people standing across the street from a diner in below freezing weather.

He considered that everyone seemed to be holding their phones or cameras, a few were clutching notebooks and pens or posters and marker, and that all of them had the wide eyes, red cheeked expression of someone who was about to see something amazing.

Was someone famous around?

He glanced over at the diner, a small non-descript thing with large windows that let him peer inside and see a bunch of booths and the people in them. A few couples, a family and...Ah.

A group of four; a woman with long brown hair dressed in reds and blacks, a man with hair that was so pale it was nearly white who was twitching in his seat, a man with blond hair and purple tinted sunglasses on (in December), and finally the one Jason figured must have all these people lined up to meet him.

Big, blond, toothy smile, all American looks: Captain America.

Jason knew about him. Had studied him and the Howling Commandos in his American history class, though he’d ended up kidnapped and held by the Joker before really getting into it. He’d heard about the guy being found and thawed, about SHIELD, about the Avengers. He’d been busy for the past few years (trying to invade and then raize Gotham had taken years of planning and a ton of money from a lot of people who were without a doubt looking for him so they could shut his mouth permanently), but you’d have to be dead not to know who the Avengers were, especially after the information dump from SHIELD.

Mystery solved Jason shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and made to push through the mass of people to continue his walk. He wasn’t interested in playing superhero groupie, wasn’t interested in being around any heroes at all. He’d had more than his fill of the cape and cowl crowd.

Then he saw him. A guy, about his age, standing slightly apart from the crowd. Tan skin, brown hair cut to military standards, in jeans and a thick jacket, clutching a camera. He should have appeared no different from the rest of the people eager to see their hero up close.

Except his eyes were completely blank. Not disinterested or bored but blank. Devoid of not just emotion but thought and...anything. Just empty. Jason knew that look. He’d worn that look.

That man was ready to kill on command. Had done it before, would do it again and again, and would never feel a thing about it because orders were orders.

Noise raced through the crowd like a gunshot and as if one being it started to press forward, trying to sweep Jason along with it. He could see that the group had left their table and were exiting the resturant, free to be mauled by their adoring public.

He put his head down and pushed through as gently as he could; he could have literally thrown any of these people to the ground and walked over them but that could attract attention.

He saw the man following, pressing forward while reaching into the bag slung over his shoulder for something. The bag shifted then dropped away, leaving the man holding a pistol. He kept it low and in the excitement and chatter no one noticed or paid him any attention.

Jason could see that his eyes were now trained on the Captain America.

Jason’s fingers twitched. He needed to get moving because this was about to be a thing with news vans and cops and the Fucking Avengers and even though his face was covered and he’d gone back to his natural hair color and ditched the blue contacts he couldn’t risk it.

Besides he was out of the saving and avenging business. He’d had that part of himself beaten out years ago.

And yet he was hesitating.

He saw the crowd was closing in around the heroes, camera flashes were going off and people were shouting and the man was in the middle of it all and

Another gun, a sub-machine gun actually, in the hands of a petite dark skinned woman.

“Fuck me.” He muttered even as he reached for the gun he kept holstered at his back, under his shirt.

 

\-----

 

Steve saw the gun and sighed. There was no fear because he could already see Clint moving, see Pietro blurring around the edges and Wanda’s eyes glowing. The gun would probably never be fired and even if it was Wanda would stop the bullets from harming anyone. (Hell she might just will the gun out of existence if she was feeling up to it.)

And then a gloved hand was around the gunman’s wrist, wrenching him back as a kick to his legs brought him to his knees. Another gun appeared, against the gunman’s temple and

“Don’t!” Steve shouted.

Green eyes snapped up to meet his own; everything else was hidden behind a red half-mask and the red hood of the sweatshirt greeneyes was wearing.

There was a disturbingly subdued Pop and the gunman slumped forward, now sporting a neat little starburst hole where the gun had been pressed.

It started and ended in less than five seconds. People were shrieking and running, shoving and flailing in their attempt to get away and Steve could see that some of them weren’t running, but rather were dropping bags and drawing weapons and firing.

“Damn.” Clint had his bow out and Steve wanted to ask where he’d even been keeping that except the man was already ducking away to take cover, arrow notched and flying.

“Pietro, get the civilians.” Steve said as he and Wanda ducked in the opposite direction of Clint to take cover behind a water truck that had been idling outside of the restaurant.

Pietro blurred away. The windows of the diner shattered and crashed, letting the frantic screams of the people inside escape into the air.

This was the second time Steve had been attacked this week.

After handling Ultron they’d gone back to systematically taking out Hydra bases around the globe and whatever was left of the organization had recently started lashing out, making almost pathetic attempts at assassinations, just tossing people at them like cannon fodder.

Natasha and Tony agreed that it had to mean something else and were trying to distract them. Steve thought it meant they were desperate and floundering, simply flailing useless in their death throes.

They’d rounded up more Hydra operatives in the past month than in the year prior to that. It was gratifying and also alarming because there were just so many. At times he really believed what they always said and that two more operatives springing every time one was cut down.

He would have liked to ask Bucky what he thought but Bucky didn’t talk unless Steve ordered him to and so he preferred to just let the other man stay silent.

Greeneyes had hopped through one of the broken windows and Steve could see him peeking up over the wall. He made a gesture, hoping to catch the man’s attention, and got a stiff nod in reply.

“Shoot to disable, not kill.” Steve said and he put some steel in his voice, made it an order. A shiver ran through greeneye’s entire body but as Steve rolled from behind the truck and slammed his fist into the face of a man holding a machine gun who’d been trying to sneak up around the side of the truck,he saw a woman fall over clutching her knee, a red stain spreading over her pants leg.

His shield was in the car and he felt strange without it, like he’d walked out of the house without his pants on, but he made due with his fists just fine. Wanda stayed behind the truck, working her telekinesis to keep the him shielded from bullets.

All too soon there were a dozen formerly armed men and women lying on the concrete and Clint was binding the ones who were still conscious with zip ties.

Steve could hear sirens getting close to them and sighed while rubbing a hand through his hair. They were going to have to talk to them which meant hanging around longer which meant being caught by reporters, unless they called back to the tower for a ride and it was always such a pain to deal with this kind of thing. It took forever to sort.

If Hydra really was trying to distract him then the sheer amount of paperwork these scuffles caused was a great way to do it.

“Our new friend is trying to get away.” Clint remarked mildly. Steve blinked then turned to see that greeneyes was now gunless and had picked up a duffel bag and was kind of edging away towards the crowd that was starting to surround them.

Social media was the worst. Anytime they had public fights they could count on a bunch of people showing up, sometimes before the police or fire department, drawn to the location to watch and often record.

At least this time they were a decent distance away, hovering at either end of the block, cell phones out and pointed towards them.

Steve sighed, rolling his shoulders. He’d just wanted some lunch and to show Pietro and Wanda one of his favorite places to get burgers. He’d thought it’d be a nice way to help them get settled here in New York.

He should have worn the hat and glasses. Crowds never showed up wanting his autograph and to take pictures of him and secretly being half comprised of people who wanted to kill him when he wore the hat and glasses.

Who cared if Tony said he looked like a dork anyway?

“I’ve got it.” Pietro offers. Steve nodded. Pietro wrapped an arm around Wanda’s waist then blurred, appearing as a stuttering echo for a moment to wrap an arm around Greeneyes, then blurred out of sight again.

Clint ambled over to him, smiling faintly. “You didn’t have fun?”

Steve couldn’t even manage a glare or eye roll. Instead he walked over to the first gunman and crouched next to him. On the back of his neck, low enough that his shirt collar had probably hidden it normally, was a red tattoo. A skull and 6 tentacles in a circle.

“What’s the point of all this? They never even stand a chance.” They weren’t even real fights, not even highly trained operatives; just people with guns and a healthy dose of fanaticism. Any one of them could have handled it on their own let alone four of them together and yet they continued to show up like this even though it had to be apparent that they didn’t stand a chance and were doing nothing but losing people left and right.

It was starting to get so Steve didn’t even want to leave the tower just so he could avoid these little...scrapes.

Clint shrugged. “Getting on your nerves?

“It’s working.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Once he'd finished trying to puke up his lungs and stomach the red haired woman takes him aside to a bathroom and makes him strip down. She leaves the door open and he can see mousy looking man she called Bruce carefully not watching them. He isn't embarrassed but there is something about her disinterested expression that makes him want to squirm away. She was good, no denying that; she found his guns of course but also plucked out all of the blades in the lining of his coat, found the deconstructed lock pick set in the lining of his wallet, and the plastic explosive he keeps in the sole of his boot. She arched one perfect eyebrow at that then tonelessly ordered him to open his mouth.  
> "I'll bite your fucking fingers off."  
> "I'll rip your throat out." She said cheerfully.  
> Jason isn't as good at reading people as Bruce was but knows she'd do it without flinching. He opens his mouth and lets her pull out the razor blade he keeps in the roof of his mouth.  
> The man hissed. "That's disgusting."  
> "I like his style." The woman's smile was feral.


	2. Standing on Top of the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson's got questions. Clint doesn't give a shit. Natasha saw that coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this here crossover Batman and the Batfamily exist but the rest of the DC universe not so much. As soon as you go acknowledging all that other stuff you fall into an endless black hole of history and...yeah.

“Strip.” Her tone was bland, almost bored, and matched her neutral expression perfectly. She was sitting on the sink, legs dangling, and had placed a cardboard box on the back of the toilet.

Jason hesitated for a moment, glancing over his shoulder. She had left the door open and he could see the mousy looking man with glasses carefully not looking in their direction while he leaned against the desk. The white haired man and brunette woman from the diner had been present at first but the redhead had ushered them out with a promise that she’d catch up with later.

That was, of course, after he’d puked violently for a few minutes and everyone stared at him. The white haired man who’d brought him here had hovered over him, anxiously talking to him in a language that sounded a bit like Romanian or Russian, Jason admittedly wasn’t even close to fluent in either, with a heavy Eastern European accent and patted his back soothingly.

It was silly really, the last time someone had attempted to comfort him while he was sick had been Alfred and Jason had hated it even then because he hated being touched or treated like a kid even when he’d been a kid. But in this instance he’d been pretty sure he was literally dying so he’d allowed it. Besides it seemed like the guy had a lot of practice at the whole back rubbing while crooning softly thing so who was Jason to deny him?

Plus: Dying. He’d felt like his head was actually going to explode from the pressure that had been building behind his eyes or that he was going to hack up his lungs or stomach with all of the retching (less literally on that part.)

After that the brunette woman had pressed a hand to his head and the pain and nausea had vanished as if it had never been there, which was a pretty nifty trick. She’d looked a little troubled when she’d stepped back from him, dark eyes so intent it was like she could see into him.

He turned back to the redhead.

“In front of him? Is this a group thing? Because I’m fine with that, he’s kind of nerdy older guy hot,” The man made a choking noise. “But I like a little foreplay first. How about we all strip?”

He wasn’t embarrassed about taking off his clothes, and certainly didn’t care who was looking, but there is something about her disinterested expression that made him want to squirm away.

She sighed then glanced down. He followed her eyes and found that she had picked up a small wickedly sharp looking blade from somewhere. Where he wasn’t sure, he hadn’t even seen her reach for anything and she was only wearing a black tank top so it certainly hadn’t been hidden up her sleeves.

“I can do foreplay.” There was an almost seductive lilt to her voice.

He would have smiled if he wasn't still wearing the mask over the bottom half of his face. “I bet every man you’ve ever killed has died happy.”

She snorted. “Not if I was doing it right.”

He handed her the gun at his back without further protest. Oh he could have fought her; she was a tiny woman all things considered, but that didn’t mean anything. He knew all about tiny redheads and how’d they’d break your nose if you didn’t give them the respect they were due and this one deserved caution, if not respect. He knew she was the Black Widow and while his knowledge on the Avengers wasn’t that extensive, only what he’d caught on TV and read about in the news after that SHIELD dump, he knew she was supposed to be an assassin and government field agent without equal.

Deep in unknown territory (even if ‘unknown territory’ was a very tidy windowless office with some framed pictures on the desk and walls, tasteful furniture, and an expensive looking suit hanging on the coat rack in the corner) wasn’t the best place to test out his skills against her.

He had to give her credit, she was thorough. He handed her the gun but she also managed to pluck out all of the blades in the lining of his coat when he handed it over, found the deconstructed lock pick set in the lining of his wallet when he pulled off his pants, and the plastic explosive he keeps in the sole of his boot. She arched an eyebrow at that, something like amusement lurking at the edge of her lips, but stayed silent.

He pulled off the hooded jacket and shirt next, knowing there was nothing of note to be found in them. His hair brushed over his ears, too long for comfort and alarmingly red; he’d been dying it black since Bruce had found him trying to steal the tires off the batmobile when he was 13 and it still felt much too...obvious to him. He looked in the mirror and forgot who was staring out at him sometimes.

She started running her fingers over the seams then stopped, frowning.

“Mask. Not much point hiding your face.” He stayed still. “That’s fine. We can do it the hard way. You seem like you like that kind of thing.”

"I don't dislike it." 

Maybe he should have taken his chances fighting her and trying to get away. How many floors were they up anyway? Could he get to the door fast enough? Would it matter? They had some fliers among their number, Thor being one of them. How far would he get if a supposed god was coming after him?

She must have seen something on his face because the corner of her mouth twitched. “There is no way you’d get out of this room.”

“And we’re like a million floors up and the building is crawling with people.” A new voice remarked from dangerously close. He started, throwing himself back against the wall in alarm; he hadn’t heard anyone come into the room and he was an extremely hard man to sneak up on.

The man with the purple tinted glasses from the diner was standing there, leaning against the door frame, and giving Jason a careful once over.

Widow squinted at him. “What’re you doing back so soon Barton?”

“The director was kind enough to send some of the PR newbies out to distract the media and you know how law enforcement loves Cap.” He shrugged as he said it but his eyes didn’t move away from Jason. "All of a sudden they didn't even need me around."

“Spoiled.” Her petulant tone was the most emotion Jason had heard from her. He was reasonably certain that these two were friends and had been for a while. There was an air of ease between them not to mention that she shifted her legs when Barton slid deeper into the room, giving him the space to stand between her legs and rest his hip against the sink.

Jason couldn’t think of anyone he’d let get that close without trying to break their legs.

“So I’m thinking you’re what? 25, tops? But you’ve got almost as many scars as I do. Shot a few times, looks like someone tried to cut you up at least once, some burn scars. Fingers are offset on your right hand, like they were broken and didn’t heal right. Makes me wonder who you work for that let you get beat up like this  and why they had you outside of that diner, with more weapons than anyone except Tasha walks around with.”

And just like that Jason was feeling exposed. He didn’t like the look the man was wearing; it was entirely too close to sad and ‘concerned’ for his personal comfort. Disgust or fear would have been preferable but this was just a hop from pity and Jason didn’t need anyone’s fucking pity. Yeah, he’d messed up and he’d let the Joker get ahold of him and yes, that psycho had shot him, stabbed him, broken bones, burned him, choked him and generally wrecked him but that had been a long time ago.

He’d survived it. More than that he’d gotten better because of it. His time with Joker trapped in Arkham, all that pain and taunting, had helped focus him. It had opened his eyes to how the world really is, released him from the ridiculous moral code he’d adopted. It had changed everything and he was _better_ for it.

He owed Joker almost as much as Bruce for who he was today.

He grunted in response, suddenly feeling defiant in the face of that sadness, and grabbed the bottom of the half mask and pulled it up. The blond man’s eyes honed in on his cheek, on his brand, the way everyone’s eyes did when they saw his face. It was one thing to see the web of scar tissue over his abdomen from where Joker had gotten creative with blade or the puckered discolored skin on his shoulder from a particularly bad burn but the brand always got to people. Something about another person having marked him like an animal just made people’s skin crawl.  

Sometimes he wanted that. Needed it.

He’d expected disgust or horror or discomfort because that was what there always was. Instead there sudden bright anger. A hand darted out and caught his chin painfully, forcing his head to the side.  

“Who did this to you?”

And hey, he sounded furious and Jason really didn’t know what to do with that at all. This guy didn’t even know him but he looked like he wanted to hurt something, like he actually gave a shit. Jason was too startled to do anything but stare back; no one had ever, in the years since the Joker had taken him, bothered to get angry on his behalf.

“Barton.” Widow reached out and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. The blond looked at her. “Pretty sure you’re freaking him out.”

Yes, yes he was. Not that Barton looked like he cared; instead his gaze was back on Jason, just as angry and questioning as it had been before.

Jason shifted uncomfortably. “He’s dead.”

Barton looked skeptical for a second then backed up, releasing Jason. “Good.”

It would have been better if Jason had been the one to kill him but considering how hard Batman had worked at keeping the Joker from being killed over the years the fact Joker was dead at all was something to celebrate.

If Jason had tried to do the deed himself it went without saying that Bruce would have done whatever was needed to stop him. Bad enough that Joker had been allowed to live after kidnapping and ‘killing’ him and that Jason was oh so aware that Batman wouldn’t have let him kill the clown but if he’d had to confront that outside of his head, seen it play out...he didn’t think he would have been able to cope.

Maybe that was why he’d waited so long to come back to Gotham and never moved against Joker himself. Better to let the chance slip away then deal with Batman protecting Joker from him.

“Open your mouth.” Widow said, voice back to bland and toneless.

He glared. "I'll bite your fucking fingers off."

Barton made a noise that sounded like an aborted laugh.

"I'll rip your tongue out." Widow's voice all honey and sweetness.

Jason wasn't as good at reading people as Batman was but was pretty sure she'd do it without flinching and that no one would try to stop her (Though the man in the glasses looked decidedly uncomfortable.) He opened his mouth and let her prod around then pull out the razor blade he kept pushed into the roof of his mouth. His could feel blood dripping down onto his tongue and down his throat but it wasn’t bad.

The man with glasses hissed. "That's...disgusting. And unsanitary."

"I like his style." The woman's smile was feral as she flicked the blade into the trash. Jason smiled back, not so much because he felt like smiling and more because he knew the guy would cringe at the sight of his bloody mouth.

The man took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt, lips pulled into a frown. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“They both have an unfortunate fondness for that kind of thing.” The door swung open and an older man walked in. He wasn’t much to look at on first glance (though his suit was nice and well fitted. Not Jason’s style but he knew a thing or two from all the ‘events’ he’d had to attend once upon a time.)

“Hey boss.” Widow greeted. Jason couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

“That’s your boss?” He looked like an accountant or a principal...a well dressed paper pusher, for lack of a better descriptor.

“He’s scarier than he looks.” She stage whispered then smiled beatifically when The Suit snorted darkly.

“That reminds me, I’m still waiting for the expense report from that trip to Venezuela.” The Suit sat down behind the desk and set his laptop down. Then glanced at Glasses curiously; the other man moved away from the desk and into one of the free chairs hastily. “It would be less paperwork for all of us if you both just came back to SHIELD full time.”

Widow and Barton exchanged loaded looks that, somehow, seemed to communicate a full conversation. Then Barton shook his head. “No.”

“You do expense reports?” Glasses asked looking slightly mystified.

“The government likes to know where their money is going.” The Suit said. “They’re oddly interested in what we’re up to these days. Strangest thing.”

“Yeah.” Barton drew out the word, looking amused then tilted his head back to look at Widow. “You done here?”

“Depends” She wiggled her fingers in Jason’s face, purple painted tips almost close enough to brush against his skin. “You hiding anything else somewhere I need to poke into?”

Jason smirked. “No but if you feel like you need to-”

“I’m going to go.” Glasses said loudly. “Doesn’t seem like you need me around for backup anymore Natasha.”

Widow nodded and slide around Barton to pad over and walk out of the room with the curly haired man. Barton waited until the door clicked close before rolling his eyes.

“Backup? Do you think he believes that?”

“I think Banner believes anything Natasha tells him to believe.” The suit had opened his laptop and didn’t bother looking up as he spoke. “Put your clothes back on please.”

Barton snagged the cardboard box that was now full of everything Jason had been carrying and walked over to drop it on the desk. The Suit glanced inside briefly but otherwise remained immersed in whatever was on his screen. Barton sat on the desk and poked through the box, occasionally making appreciative noises. Widow walked in just as he was shrugging his sweatshirt back in. She sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk then swung her bare feet up; Suit reached out and pushed one of the picture frames aside just before her feet landed.

It seemed like he was out of luck on his boots, since Widow had pried the tread off of one to pull out the plastic explosive and just flat out thrown the other into the box without checking it, so he opted to just stay barefoot and carry his leather coat as he crossed over to the desk.

He eyed the chair that Widow wasn’t sitting in warily, ignoring the way she was smirking at him.

“It doesn’t bite. As far as I know.” Suit said but didn’t look up.

“Strange was here last week to talk to Cap and Stark.” Widow offered.

“Was he?” Suit paused in his typing for a moment. “I stand corrected then. It may very well bite. And turn you into a woman or teleport you into an alternate reality. ”

Jason considered that, decided an alternate reality probably couldn’t be all that bad and sat, legs curled underneath him. The Suit leaned forward expression one of deadly seriousness.

“I’m Director Coulson of SHIELD.”

“SHIELD? As in that big info dump on line and secretly had a bunch of shady nazis lurking around on the inside?” He was pretty sure that was how it had gone.

Coulson’s expression didn’t change yet Jason got the distinct feeling he didn’t find it as amusing as Jason did.  “We’re interested in who you’re working for.”

“Working for?” He frowned, brow furrowing.

“You were right outside of a restaurant various avengers were eating just in time to aid them against an attempt on their lives. Just passing by? With all of that?” Coulson pointed at the box to punctuate his point. “And killed a man.”

Jason hesitated, considering that carefully, then nodded. It wasn’t inaccurate. “It sounds suspicious when you say it like that.”

A quirked eyebrow. “A bit.”

“Well. That’s it.” He shrugged. “Just walking by. Thought it would be pretty messed up to watch Captain America get shot.”

Barton pointed at the box. “You had explosives in your boots.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Probably not, actually, but when you were moving around a lot and living out a duffle bag you had to spread your tools out, just in case you lost the bag or the coat or the boots.  

“I had Stark’s AI run your face through the SHIELD database while you were getting dressed.” Coulson said blandly. Jason went rigid and swore he could feel the blood draining from his face. “Would you like to see the results?”

He looked at the laptop then back up at Coulson, mind racing. What kind of resources did SHIELD have? Was his face in their database? Were they still leaking information all over the place? Was he dangerously close to having Batman dropping into New York off a tip from Oracle? Or worse, the people who’d bankrolled his attempt to take over Gotham? (An entire army and a bunch of high tech drone tanks didn’t come cheap and failure really pissed people off.)

It figured that trying to do the right thing was probably going to kill him.

Again.

Or worse, land him back at Wayne Manor.

His own fault of course. If he had left Jason Todd/Wayne behind and not gone on his little revenge trip he wouldn’t be having this problem. But he’d traveled down the ‘should have done’ path a lot lately so instead he shook his head.

“No.”

“No?” Coulson made a gesture to his laptop. “Are you sure? It’s interesting, since you’ve supposedly been dead for five years.”

“It’s not, actually. I’ll give you the abridged version if you want. Single rich guy of questionable moral fiber adopts a teenage boy from the circus then four years later meets a thirteen year old boy in an alley and convinces people that it’s a good idea to let him adopt that boy as well, even though it kind of sounds like some kind of kiddie rape circle set up.” To their credit no one even blinked. “It wasn’t and for the next four years everything is great...until he gets kidnapped, held for ransom, and then shot. Only he’s not dead, just held captive for an extended period of time while his father found a new son. He meets a lot of not totally on the right side of things people and decides that, considering he’s legally dead and all, killing people for money seems like a good way to pass the time. He pisses off some people and goes into hiding. The End.”

At least that was the story he was going to go with here. Kidnapped and held for ransom only to be murdered was the official story for how he’d ‘died’ since Bruce hadn’t exactly been able to go around telling people his sidekick had been kidnapped by Joker or anything like that since, frankly, training teenagers to be child soldiers was kind of frowned upon.

Close to the truth but not quite the truth.

Why he was protecting Bruce and the big bat secret even now was beyond him, expect that he knew exactly why he was doing it. It was ingrained in him, like a reflex, and even the Joker had to keep him and break him down for a year before he’d been far gone enough to be willing to say it, And then the Joker had shot him before the ‘big reveal’ while declaring him no longer fun so maybe there was a little negative reinforcement along with everything else.

Jason flicked an imaginary piece of lint off of his jeans. “Not interesting.”

“I agree.” Barton said. He hopped off the desk and put a hand on Jason’s shoulder. Jason stiffened but Barton either didn’t notice or didn’t care; in fact he squeezed his shoulder lightly. “You need pizza. Let’s do that.”

Coulson’s emotionless expression finally cracked to give way to exasperation. “Clint, please-”

“I’ll order some for you too.” Barton promised. “And the twins.”

 

\----

 

Natasha watched, stone faced, as Clint escorted the red haired man out of the room then flashed an amused smile at Phil. “I hate to quote Pietro-”

“Please don’t.” He looked resigned.

“But you have to admit you should have seen that coming.”

Phil just stared at her in that way of his. He could make some of most hardened people in the world cower with some well placed threats and while Natasha respected him and his abilities his varying empty looks had never really bothered her.

But then she’d known Phil before she’d actually _known_ him. Clint had spoken of him when trying to convince her to follow him back to SHIELD, had made his then handler sound like something totally different from the handlers and government officials Natasha was used to.

“He did the same thing when you were trying to ‘talk to’ Wanda and Pietro about their ‘terrorist’ activities before joining up with Hydra.” She pointed out.

They had been completely legitimate questions as had the ones about the various people they'd encountered while with Ultron, including the weapons smugglers in Wakanda. A lot of people in the Alphabet Agencies had been interested in the answers and hadn’t wanted SHIELD handling it but the Avengers hadn’t been willing to let anyone but Coulson anywhere near the twins and that had been touch and go considering Phil was supposed to be dead.

She and Clint had been in the know but they hadn’t been allowed to share with the others and things had been...strained once the truth came out. Still they’d agreed better Coulson and SHIELD than people they didn’t know. It was all smoothed over now and Tony had even given Coulson this office in the tower (Though Coulson had noted it was windowless and tiny and may possibly have been a supply closet with a half-bathroom tacked on later.)

Clint had tolerated about five minutes of Phil’s questions then whisked the twins away in search of burgers.

Phil still didn’t have the answers to any of those things. She didn’t know what he’d told the other agencies to appease them but the Avengers hadn’t heard anything about it and that was enough for her.

“They still sleep in the guest room sometimes.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

She smiled faintly. “He did the same thing with me.”

“You still sleep on the couch sometimes.” There was a rare note of fondness to his voice and when he looked at her there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

She could still remember the first time she’d snuck into his apartment. It had been years ago, Clint and Phil had just stopped being oblivious idiots, and Clint had been staying at his place for the night. She wasn’t supposed to know where Coulson’s apartment was but it wasn’t like she let Clint go anywhere that wasn’t under her watchful eye. It had started raining so she’d crept in and decided to sit on the foot of the bed.

Phil had looked particularly put out to wake up in the dead of the night and find Natasha staring down at him. He hadn’t shot her (she knew it had been close before he’d had a gun pointed between her eyes faster that she had thought possible for him) thankfully and then had granted her permission to come by as long as she kept it to the couch.

She didn’t do it often. When Clint had first brought her in she’d been glued to his side, shared his bed, but eventually she’d weaned it down to only when she couldn’t sleep or when her dreams about the red room were so real she needed reassurance that she was really out.

Phil had been accommodating considering. For most people it would have been too strange, even with the lives they lead.

Then again Phil Coulson wasn’t most people.

Clint had a habit of collecting strays, the more damaged, homicidal, and sarcastic they were the more Clint wanted to take them home. He didn’t care about protocol or procedure or anything like that and even though Phil claimed to find it bothersome and bad for his career Natasha suspected it was one of the things he liked most about Clint.

Phil was, after all, one of those people who believed in reformation and giving people chances. That was why Fury had put him in charge of rebuilding SHIELD; no one believed in what SHIELD should be more than Coulson did.

“What’re you thinking?” Natasha asked.

Coulson drummed his fingers on his desk while staring at something on the screen of his laptop for a long moment before finally shutting it. “We should find make sure Clint orders enough pizza.”

She got up and followed Coulson to the door. Originally she’d intended to get dinner with Bruce but pizza night held a certain charm. The Avengers were her friends and Bruce was...more than a friend, even if things were still strange after Ultron, but Clint and Phil were her family. She didn't know where she'd be without them but she knew it wouldn't be a good place. Clint had been the first to believe she could be more than what the Red Room had trained her to be and Coulson has accepted that and gone to bat for her on Clint's word alone. Not that she’d ever say that to them. It would only make them more insufferable, especially Clint.

She'd proven herself to Fury since then and could stand on her own merit of course. Had more than proven herself not just as an agent but as a damn loyal one. Even when Fury had faked his death, lied to her, and SHIELD had been exposed as being rotten almost down to it's core she'd risked everything to help clean up the mess.

Maybe she believed in what SHIELD could be as much as Coulson. She wouldn't be sharing that with anyone either. 

“What do you think would motivate a man to dye his kid’s hair black and have them wear blue contacts?” Coulson asked absently.

Natasha cast a look over at him but his face was complete guileless. Which meant he was up to something. “I don’t know boss. You tell me.”

He nodded. “I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel Meh about this chapter but it was kind of needed (as much as I’d like to go “and then Jason showed up at the tower and no one asked any questions about all the weapons and the fact he totally shot a guy in the head!”) At first it was 5 pages of super inappropriate Nat and Jason snark and that basically wrote itself but when I edited that down and tried to force some semblance of reality in there it become like pulling teeth. It may show.  
> My own hand wavey timeline says Jason is 13 when he becomes Robin, 17 when the Joker takes him, and thus is 22 now. Also the Scarecrow ending of the game? Ignoring that because A. I admittedly wasn’t totally done with the game when I started this and B. I think it’s dumb. I won't even bother spoiling it. ;)


	3. I'm Not Asleep, I'm not Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter. My mother is visiting so it was this or nothing for a few days.

He didn’t leave his rooms often so to be out in the main common area on their floor for any length of time of his own free will was different enough for Rogers to step off the elevator, start to walk past him, then back up and stare.

He didn’t blame him for being confused. He spent most of his time in the smaller living room that was attached to his bedroom. He even slept there, on the couch, on those rare occasions that he was so exhausted he had no choice but to pass out wherever he happened to be.

He didn’t like to sleep (it was impossible to keep all the things in his mind from surging forward and drawing him under when he was asleep) and he found the bedroom, with it’s plush mattress, soft sheets, drawers and dressers full of clothes and bedside table piled high with Stark tech to be...unnerving.  

Steve’s room was across the hall from his own and he was allowed in there, the door was coded for him, and there were other empty rooms on the floor as well that he could have gone into; the only one that was actually closed to him belonged to Wilson. A kitchen and living room further down the hallway and then the elevator, which would allow him to go to certain floors in the tower.

Never the ground floor or to the hanger however.

He didn’t mind that he was essentially a prisoner. He was used to being kept in cramped safe houses when he was awake, never permitted outside unless he was actively working a mission, so by contrast he had a fair amount of freedom.

Captain Rogers still apologized often about keeping him inside and promised that one day he’d be allowed out, to come and go as he pleased. He thought the man said it more for his own peace of mind than anything else.

“As soon as you’re better.” Is what Rogers promised and he found that, for some reason, he just couldn't tell the man that there was no better than this. Maybe it was because Rogers made this face, with wide wounded so blue eyes and full lips parted just so, open and honestly heartbroken. He couldn’t deal with that face.

So instead he nodded and let Rogers pretend that at some point he’d be able to fix all the things that were fractured and broken in him, that at some point all the snippets of lives could be fit together.

He thought sometimes that he had enough fragments of James Barnes to be able to reconstruct that man for Rogers but when he’d suggested it the other man had just made that face and shaken his head before leaving the room in a hurry. Wilson had rolled his eyes, said they were ‘dramatic as shit’, then told him not to worry about doing things to make Rogers happy.

He’d found that comment strange. He wasn’t trying to make Rogers happy, was he? It was simply that he thought being Barnes would help with the obvious tension Rogers was dealing with. Becoming someone else for the sake of a mission wasn’t hard, he had memories of having done it before though he knew logically he’d always been wiped and programed for it, and Rogers was still the last mission he’d gotten.

He didn’t think he was going to kill the man. He’d considered it, had stalked Rogers for a time and stared down the scope of his rifle and aimed at the blond more than once but in the he’d never taken the shot. He’d thought about, tried to do it, but he’d always frozen up The opposite, even.

Instead of taking a shot at Captain America he’d found himself climbing up high and picking off those who fought against the man. The first time had been in the city after a bunch of strange people who apparently lived underground (They were called Moloids, apparently) had decided to come up top to take over. The Avengers had gone in to handle it and Rogers had been swarmed by two dozen of the strange little creatures with giant bug eyes and sharp looking teeth.

He’d found himself taking shots without really realizing he was doing it or knowing why, just that he had to do it. It was…

Watching Rogers’ back was what he did, wasn’t it? He’d done it before? It felt natural and easy, fanned at a warm feeling inside of him that he couldn’t put a name too and yet wanted to feel again. He didn’t know warm things, hadn’t known what it was to want things until he’d watched Rogers sinking into deep blue waters and had wanted to pull him back to the surface.

He’d followed Rogers’ around for a few months. He’d known Rogers knew he was there, had caught him looking in his direction and mouthing his name, and he’d been sure that the Avengers or what remained of SHIELD would swoop in soon enough, grab him off of whatever perch he’d set up on to watch over Rogers.

It never happened. The search to find him was apparently called off, Rogers and Wilson moved into Avengers tower and Rogers made a point of spending a lot of time out on the roof or on his balcony but no one ever came after him. Rogers was giving him time, letting him stay free. He didn’t understand it; he was nothing but a tool, an asset, something with no purpose beyond killing on demand and without complaint. What could be gained by Rogers letting him roam free and without direction?

When the Avengers went to Sokovia and he’d found himself unable to do anything but wait he’d decided to turn himself in. He had been...something. He didn’t know what to call it but he had felt something dark and cold, a tight pressure in his chest that only got worse as everything played out.

It had felt wrong, so wrong, to be unable to watch over Rogers. Captain America was, after all, reckless, emotional, and stupid and couldn’t be trusted to keep himself alive.

_He thought of tiny skinny smart mouthed Steve, his Steve, who didn’t know when to back down or how to keep himself safe and that’s why he’d needed Bucky at his side to-_

He’d walked into Avengers Tower, right through the front door, into the lobby, and introduced himself to the receptionist as James Barnes. A  woman with pale red hair had come running out of an elevator less than a minute later. She’d stared at him for a long moment then hustled him into the elevator.

He hadn’t left the tower since.

He didn’t like it.

He couldn’t watch Rogers from in here so instead he watched the news any time the man went out, anxious for what he might see.

Today found him watching the grainy video that the reporter said came from a cell phone. Rogers was walking out of a building with the archer, witch, and runner (He’d met them all. Sometimes the Avengers came to their floor for meals and movies and Rogers liked to draw him out to associate. Sometimes he did because Rogers told him to but then Rogers would make that face when he realized he was just responding to orders and it would all go wrong). There was the thrum of excited chatter as the camera focused on the group of four and the crowd that was starting to push in around them.

Then a single gunshot and the camera lurched, swinging first towards the ground then to the side. Here he paused it (a handy feature if ever there was one) and stared. He’d watched this video a few times now, maybe a dozen, and it was this small two second moment that interested him.

A person, gender impossible to determine because of the angle, face hidden by a deep red hood, was standing over a prone body, pistol in hand.

He’d listened to the story, as barked out by a guy named Jameson who seemed chronically furious about the Avengers, and it seemed that the person in the red hood had, according to witness reports, ‘melted’ from the crowd and fired just as a man had drawn a gun, intending to attack. Then it had descended into what Jameson called ‘an all out firefight’ resulting in the one death but no civilian injuries (Jameson had looked particularly sour as he admitted that part).

Then the video played. After this part it was all pavement and feet with the sound of gunshots and frantic screeching before going dark.

After the video Jameson would say that witnesses had seen Quicksilver, one of the new Avengers, take the red hooded figure and leave the scene. A paranoid rant about the Avengers setting up the attack on themselves and hiding a murderer from authorities and endorsing vigilante executions in the street.

He found it boring so after listening to the raving one time through he’d focused on the shaky video and the red hooded figure.  

He stared at the frozen image. It made him...angry?

No.

Yes.

Not exactly.

He didn’t like it. Someone else, some unknown element, had been out there able to step in when Rogers was threatened and that was what he had been doing. What he should have been doing. It didn’t matter than he knew, logically, that a handful of untrained people with guns who were stupid enough to try to run headfirst at four Avengers weren’t actually a threat, that Rogers could have handled it easily enough on his own.

What mattered is that the only time he’d felt _(right)_ like he wasn’t too many people shoved in too small a space since he’d meet Rogers was when he’d been acting to protect him. When he was doing it he didn’t think about how he wasn’t completing his mission, didn’t think about handlers and assets and ice or electricity or all the things he’d lost or all the things he’d been programed to be and do trying to break loose in his head.

Rogers came closer, leaning forward and gripping the back of the couch, so close that he was aware of the smell of soap lingering around him and the dampness of his hair. “I wish he hadn’t killed that guy.”

He spared the other man a thoughtful glance. Rogers was a strange mixture of softness and fierceness. He could kill, had killed, but he seemed to carry every death heavily on his shoulders. It didn’t matter that people came at him with guns or alien armies, he wanted even his enemies to be able to walk off the battlefield in one piece, his own well being be damned.

Rogers wanted to save the whole damn world. He could see Rogers, much smaller, but no less determined, who genuinely wanted to fight for no reason other than it was the right thing to do. Because he didn’t want to sit around while other men laid down their lives, because he wanted to save and protect, because he was more heart than brains.

That was why Rogers needed him.

“Tony says they’re keeping him on Clint’s floor and he wants me to come up. You want to come? I have it on good authority that there’s enough food to feed a small country up there.” Roger’s sounded hopeful like he always did when asking him to come out of his room and associate with his friends. It didn’t matter how many times he said no because Rogers would ask again, always wearing that tentative smile and looking at him through his lashes.

Sometimes he knew that it was an old look, a look that once upon a time would have had him giving Steve, his Steve who was tiny and bold and stupid, the moon if he could. Sometimes it pulled at him, made him storm out of the room so he didn’t have to see it or had him desperate to push away the wave of memories that was trying to drown him and sometimes it made him feel something warm and fluttering in his chest.

He hated it like he hated Rogers’ sad face.

He shook his head. Rogers sighed, a puff of air brushing over his cheek and ear. “Okay. I’ll be back soon.”

He nodded then swallowed, trying to put a look of discomfort on his face. It was enough to make Rogers frown and shift just enough that his hand was brushing his shoulder.

Sometimes he wondered at the things he was missing, the parts that might had explained why Rogers was so comfortable being so close.

“If I wanted to head up how would-”

Rogers’ face split into a blindly bright smile. He was disturbingly easy to make happy; anytime he spoke without being told to or acted like he wanted something Rogers’ entire face would light up and he’d look at him like nothing else in the world mattered.

James Barnes had been lucky to have someone who looked at him like that.

“Just come up. Their floor is already coded for you. You aren’t...you can go just about anywhere in the tower Buck, I told you that.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Okay.” Rogers squeezed his shoulder briefly then stood straight. “I hope you decide to come up. Sitting inside all day isn’t like you.”

He nodded and was rewarded with another bright smile. He didn’t understand Rogers and his insistence on treating him like a person who was allowed to do and want things but sometimes it was useful.

He would go and take a look at this man in the red hood later, when everyone else was asleep. It was important to know who was out there with Rogers since he couldn't be. 

He knew why it was important. Could acknowledge that some part of him, one of the bigger fragments that could only be Barnes, wanted Rogers safe. Knew that was the reason he only felt right when he was watching over him, knew that was the reason he watched the news and carefully looked over footage from Avengers fights, looking for mistakes and though so much about Rogers' teammates and their abilities. 

It didn't matter than he'd never wanted things before (Maybe Barnes had but he wasn't Barnes and the person he was now had never wanted anything) because when it came to Rogers everything was...different. He'd brought everything shattering down with his insistence that they were friends, that they meant something to each other, and he knew that everything about Rogers just shattered him more, pulled him apart at the seams in a strangely well meaning and sweet way. He could accept wanting things that dealt with Rogers, could accept feeling things on occasion because nothing really made sense or was the way it had been before anyway. 

He thought he remembered that Rogers  _Steve, his Steve,_  had been a force to be reckoned with before. He swayed people to his side with fast smiles and fast words, swept them up in his gravity and made it impossible to want to leave.

He thought he remembered being caught by laughing blue eyes and soft hands and not caring about what was right or wrong or made sense or was proper because it was  _Steve_ and that made it easy to be just as caught now.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is pizza but Jason is too busy hiding in a corner and glaring. Tony says some (Actually very reasonable) things and nearly gets a fork in the throat.


	4. I was Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not how they trained in the Batcave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Past violence and blatant misuse of mutant abilities/arrows/tennis balls.  
> I picture Arden Cho as Kate but you know. Fill in whoever you want.

Jason followed Barton out of the office and down the hallway, considering his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see; just a hall wall lined with doors that let out into a larger well lit area. There was the sound of a TV turned up too loud and laughter, though he couldn’t actually see anyone. It was kind of disappointing actually. He hadn’t expected Avengers Tower to look like...a generic apartment building on the inside.

“Problem?” The older man asked. Jason blinked then narrowed his eyes, really looking at Barton, taking in the bare arms and shoulders and the bits of raised and puckered flesh that dotted them, large hands with long calloused fingers, white tape wound around the middle three. Easy smile, nose a little crooked and raised across the bridge, close cut blond hair, and sharp blue eyes.

His body was relaxed but his eyes were another matter completely; Jason could tell he was watching and noticing, carefully cataloging every-

“You checking me out?”

“What?” Jason blinked then jumped back, practically to the other side of the hallway to put space between them. “No. What?”

“You were starting pretty hard.” Barton’s was still wearing that small smile and there was laughter in his voice. “It’s fine, I’m top 3 for ‘Hottest Male Avengers’ according to the latest poll, behind Cap and Thor which means I’m first as far as ‘could occur in nature’ goes.”

Jason snorted. “Aren’t you old enough to be my dad?”

“Well now you’re just being mean and there...is...Aww, kids, no.” Barton sighed, hand coming up to cover his eyes.

They’d reached the end of the hall and had just stepped into the open area and it seemed a battle was taking place.  

The hallway opened into a large common area. To the left was a small kitchen and dining area. On the right there was a large entertainment system with a TV and a mess of game systems and wires, a scratched coffee table, and a large sectional couch that served to cut off the area from the rest of the room as well as a few reclining chairs. There were brightly colored quilts and pillows strewn on the couches, books and dvd cases piled high on the coffee table and spilling out of the entertainment center.

There were drag marks in the thick carpet showing where the coffee table had been moved from the center of the room to a spot next to the TV and then tipped on it’s side to provide cover for the brunette girl from the diner.

Opposite her was the white haired man _speedster_. He had a basket of tennis balls sitting next to him.  

Crouched behind one of the chairs, Jason could see a splash of pale purple, a flash of long dark brown hair, and the end of an arrow.

Jason watched as the white haired man threw the tennis balls at breakneck speed. The person behind the chair popped up and arrows sliced the air and pierced the tennis balls before slamming into the wall with solid sounding thwacks. Other tennis hurtled towards the coffee table and the woman there stood, hands and arms twisting, strands of red mist shooting out and knocking the balls off course.

They were shouting at each other and laughing, the TV was pumping out music, something loud and industrial, and tennis balls were pinging off every surface, arrows flew and red flashed and a blur of neon green whizzed towards them and Jason twisted to the side to avoid it and the world tilted wildly and

Jason couldn’t breathe.

 _He saw the flash of color to his side and turned, arm going up to block. Too late he realized it was a crowbar painted an ugly shade of orange; it came down on his arm hard enough that he heard_ **felt** _the cracking of bone. He stumbled but didn’t fall, lashing out with his fist and catching the guy right in his painted on smile._

He could feel his heart beating hard, threatening to burst right through his rib cage, and his lungs burned and he couldn't pull in air. He tasted copper.  

_Another blur of color, this one neon green, and he ducked, and another and he was jumping back then the smear of orange again and he was down on one knee, clutching his head and feeling warm wetness seeping through his glove. They closed in around him with their brightly colored weapons, faces smeared in grease paint, and wide manic eyes._

He was staring at the floor and color seemed to be draining out, seeping away to leave everything dark and gray and tried to push in on him, settling right on his chest and

_He bit the inside of his cheek then pushed himself back up, commanding the world to not spin and his legs to not give out._

He swallowed then closed his eyes, blocking out everything though he could hear Barton shouting something dimly, and commanded himself to just

Stop.

Breath.

Breath.

“You okay?”

He cracked open an eye to see that Coulson and Widow were there as well now; Widow was standing next to Barton, smirking widely, but Coulson had stopped next to him. His expression was no less bland than it had been in his office.

“Fine.” Fine enough, anyway. His heart was still beating a frantic rhythm but that just how it went. He’d had a lot of episodes when he’d first gotten way from Joker but he’d learned to deal with it and they’d lessened over time. But, like his nightmares, they were trying to make a comeback. It wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

Coulson nodded then held up a water bottle. Jason regarded it, not bothering to mask his suspicion. It was closed and he didn’t see any pinpricks to indicate tampering but that didn’t rule it out. The older man managed to look unimpressed without his expression changing at all.

“If I was interested in drugging you I’d just call Thor to hold you down.”

Well okay then.

Jason took the bottle.

“There’s a room for training you know.” Barton sounded like he was going for scolding but failing.

Is that what they'd been doing? He supposed he could see that, though they didn't train like that in the Batcave. There was no laughter or goofing off when training with Bruce, just criticism and orders to do better, be less sloppy, pay more attention. Tennis balls had, as far as he could recall, never been part of training. 

The girl with the bow rolled her eyes. “Sure, if you want Cap or Hill showing up and lecturing about formations and teamwork and ‘Kate, don’t use the explosive arrows’ and ‘Kate, use the blunt tips'-”

“Wanda, you can’t cause temporary amnesia to win at paintball.”

“Pietro, you can’t vibrate through walls, it messes with the wiring.”

“Oh and how about Ward-”

Barton held up a hand and Jason could see his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. “Seriously, not the Ward impression.”

Too late, apparently; the girl swept a strand of purple tipped hair behind her ear before schooling her face into an exaggerated grim expression. “Bishop, how do you expect to do anything but catch petty thieves if you can’t learn to lose all possible enjoyment in everything you do like me, Agent Grant Ward.”

“It is a really good impression.” Coulson said conspiratorially.

“Thank you Phil.” The girl said, flashing them a smile. Then she looked at Jason, tilting her head to the side. “Hey. I’m Kate.”

The silver haired man raised a hand in greeting. “Pietro and this is Wanda, my sister.”

Jason looked around the brightly lit room with all of it’s odds and brightly colored ends, the dozens of tennis balls on the floor, the arrows that had lodged themselves in the wall, a lamp with it’s shade askew, then at each of the other people in turn.

There were curious eyes, tentative smiles, and something warm about the air around them but he could see they were all also cautious, ready and on edge. They were being nice, open, but there was no doubt if he tried anything they wouldn’t hesitate to fight him.

“Jason Todd.”

\--

PIzza was ordered and once he’d assured Barton he’d eat anything he found himself in a shower.

Pietro had taken him back down the hallway and to a room, explaining along the way that it was the quarters he shared with his sister. The door opened into a small sitting room, sparsely furnished with a couch, a coffee table, a small cafe style table with chairs in one corner, and a TV. There were some small things that showed it was lived in, a red leather jacket and scarf on the back of the couch, two identical laptops on top of the coffee table, a blue sweatshirt on top of the other table, amongst other things.

There were three doors branching off of the small room, one in the back that was open and lead to a bathroom, and then one on each of the other walls. Pietro popped through the door on the left and Jason followed, hovering in the doorway as the speedster darted around his room so fast it actually hurt to try and keep up, before coming to a halt in front of him.

He directed Jason to the bathroom, shoving clothes, a towel, and a bar of soap into his arms as he did and, with an ominous warning against touching Wanda’s soap, shut the door to give him privacy.

The bathroom was neat and tidy and he wasn’t above admitting that water that took almost no time to heat up, wasn’t a worrying rust color, and fantastic water pressure were things he’d missed while bouncing between pay by the hour motels. He felt like he could have stayed in there forever, hot water beating down on him and soothing sore muscles. Normally he wouldn’t, not being the sort to spend an excessive amount of time on things just because they felt nice but...well.

Avenger’s Tower. No one seemed inclined to attack him and he was pretty sure the danger of someone breaking in and trying to get to him was low.

Bruce would say he was being arrogant and foolish. They were being nice, sure, but did they intend to let him leave freely? No, probably not.

Had they not taken all of his weapons, leaving him outnumbered and outgunned in unknown territory? Yep.

Shouldn’t he be scouting around for an exit strategy, not submitting to some illusion of safety and enjoying a shower? Yes.

He stayed in the shower until his skin was bright red and his fingers wrinkled and resolutely didn’t think about anything except how great it felt and how wiped out he felt. He was tried, had been tired when he'd woken up this morning, and now it was however many hours later and he was just...

He placed his head against the tiles and smiled mirthlessly. 

What was he doing here?

The gray sweatpants Pietro had provided fit well enough but the dark red t-shirt was a bit on the tight side, which he’d predicted when he’d gotten a good look at it. He and the other man were roughly the same height but it was like the difference between himself and Dick. Dick was built smaller, lithe and flexible where Jason had always been broader and heavier. Better than his own clothes, which had brent in nred of a wash long before now, though.

The room was empty when he stepped out of the steam filled bathroom. He wasn’t sure if it was arrogance that had them leaving him alone or just ign-

“Hello Mr. Todd.” A cheerful female voice rang out. He looked around, eyes drawn to the ceiling automatically, but he didn’t see any speakers or cameras. “I’m Friday, the tower’s current artificial intelligence system. Mr. Barton requested I introduce myself.”

Jason could tell that he was being made aware that A. they weren’t stupid and B. he was alone but wasn’t unwatched. He could respect that. He exhaled, forcing the tension that had gathered in his body at the sound of the voice out.

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure. Everyone is gathered in the common area.”

He nodded absently; he didn’t like the idea of being watched but it wasn’t at all unexpected. At least it was an AI and not a constant babysitter or someone in a room somewhere watching his every move.

The kitchen and dining area had gained a few new faces while he was in the shower. One was Captain America, who was sitting on a stool pulled over to the crowded table, talking animatedly to a dark skinned man who was shaking his head and laughing. There was an even larger man with blond hair pulled back into a ponytail also at the table, booming laugh ringing out as he clapped Barton on the back.

And, of course, Tony Stark. Stark was leaning against a wall, staring at his phone intently, a woman with strawberry blond hair leaning over his shoulder and pointing at something. He knew Tony Stark, of course. Stark Industries was a direct competitor of Wayne Corp, particularly in the technology area. Jason had been to a few fundraiser and award events in his time as a Wayne and meet Stark twice, though the man had been visibly drunk the first time and pretty occupied with a pair of giggling women the second.

Bruce hadn’t liked him, at all. They had similar reputations (billionaire philanthropist playboys who’d lost their parents tragically) but Bruce’s had always been for show. He had told Jason that Stark was a waste of talent and resources.

He couldn’t begin to imagine how annoyed Bruce must have been when Stark had revealed himself as Ironman. Batman was all about hiding his face and identity but Ironman was a public figure. He gave interviews and held press conferences.

“Ah!” The large blond man shouted, pointing at Jason. “This must be the young man who tried to help you all this evening! Come, we shall eat in celebration of new friends.”

There was moment of deafening silence as heads swiveled towards them.

Barton rubbed at his ear. “Yes. That. But maybe with less yelling in my ear, thanks Thor.”

“Apologies.” Thor didn’t look contrite but he did lower his voice.

Everyone else returned to what they were doing before, save Stark, who was now staring at him. Jason frowned but found his attention diverted to Barton who was pointing at Jason with one hand and slapping Thor away from a box of breadsticks with the other.

“So. This is Thor-seriously you already ate the entire other box stop- Steve Rogers, of course. Sam Wilson. Pepper Potts and Tony Stark.” He gestured to each person in time. “And they all probably looked at the email Phil sent out already but let’s pretend that they didn’t. This is-”

“Jason Wayne.” Stark interrupted.

Jason twitched.

“Jason Todd.” Barton finished, giving no indication he’d heard Stark. “Pizza. Breadsticks if you want to fight Thor for them. Spoilers, you don’t want to fight Thor for them. Salad and other stuff in the kitchen, if you’re into that.”

“We’ve met, you know.” Stark pushed away from the wall. “Before you were murdered, I mean. And, by the way, congrats on the not being dead thing.”

The woman with him (Potts, Jason thought he might had dimly recalled her following Stark around and looking frustrated) hissed. “Tony, honestly.”

Jason glanced at the kitchen. Pietro, Wanda, and Kate were in there, sitting on the kitchen counters however it seemed to be the furthest he could get from Stark without appearing like he was trying to get away. Moving into the living room would look strange since no one else was in there.

Kitchen it was.

He managed two steps in that direction before Stark spoke again.

“How is Wayne anyway?”

He shrugged and kept his tone light. “Wouldn’t know. Busy being dead.”

Last he’d known Bruce had managed to take care of Scarecrow, finish off the mercenary forces, get all the nut jobs back in lock up, and faded into the night like he always did. Jason hadn’t stuck around to see it all out, figuring he’d need all the headstart he could get.

Not that he’d gone nearly as far as he should have. The current situation was proof of that.

“No? “ Stark’s voice was thick with fake disapproval. “When were you planning to call dear old dad? Maybe give him the heads up that you’re alive?”

“Right after you call your dad I guess.” He regretted the words as soon as they were out. Stark was the poster child for daddy issues, something about never getting any hugs or some such, and poking at that wouldn't lead anywhere good.

“That’s fine. I can call for you.” Stark said easily. “I think Pepper has his personal number.”

"I don't." Potts said, rubbing at the bridge of her nose and looking as tired as Jason felt. 

Jason gritted his teeth then, forcing himself to stay still and not raise his voice, said “Bruce and I don’t have anything to talk about.”

“Knock it off Tony.” Rogers said, looking uncomfortable.

“What? His family thinks he’s dead because they failed to pay a ransom in time.” Stark’s said, sounding incredulous. “But he’s been what, running around perfectly fine this entire time? You think that should just be left alone? Isn’t it bad enough he killed someone and we’re just letting him sit around like it’s no big deal? Isn’t that the sort of thing we call the cops for? Or SHIELD?”

“SHIELD is busy. Rebuilding, recruiting, working on our latest plots to take over your company and force the Avengers to work for us. Important things.” Coulson said bluntly and without bothering to look up. “You understand.”

Stark frowned, looking unsure, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Not the point. Unless he’s been brainwashed I don’t see why we’re harboring him here, in my tower. Or did we forget about the part where he just strolled up and shot a man in the head? You have no idea how many bodies are attached to him or what he’s doing here. Maybe he wants to kill us in our sleep, maybe he’s Hydra. We don’t know anything at all except that he was supposed to be dead and that he has no problem killing people.”

“Look, I didn’t ask you people to bring me here.” He snapped. “I don’t want to be in your fucking tower but I didn’t get a choice. You want me out, I’m out, you want to call the cops, call them.”

Never mind that he would have a pathetically easy time getting away from the cops. It would, actually, probably be the most preferable outcome outside of them just letting him walk out with all his stuff.

“But I’m more likely to throw myself off your tower then go anywhere with Wayne.” He finished flatly, arms dropping to his side. The anger ran right out of him as he flicked a look over to the wall; it was floor to ceiling glass and he could see the sun was almost all the way down, casting orange and purple light all over the skyline. “Makes no fucking difference to me, I don’t exactly have a lot going on, but I bet public suicides are awful PR.”

Jason could feel the alarm ripple through the room but kept his focus on Stark, took in the wrinkle between his brows and the way he looked over at Potts as if asking for her opinions.

“Hey, are we calling people’s dads now?” Kate called. She'd turned around on the counter, tipping her head to look out over purple aviators. “Because if that’s a thing now I could use a heads up to pack up. Give a girl a headstart.”  

“Pietro and I worked with Hydra.” Wanda’s voice was lightly accented and soft but there was something cold under it. “As well as Ultron. Do we need headstart?”

“Not to mention the terrorism.” Natasha added brightly. Wanda smiled at her beatifically.

“Da.”

Jason rocked back on his heels, looking at the three in the kitchen. Were they defending him? They didn’t even know him and, frankly, everything Stark was saying was the absolute truth. Well, he didn’t plan to kill anyone, least of all in their sleep, but they couldn’t know that. And he very much intended to get out as soon as it looked doable, niceness be damned. 

It was like these people were on the exact opposite end of the paranoia scale from Batman. Or (and Jason glanced at Thor again) maybe just that unconcerned. 

“I’m of the opinion that anyone who manages to kill us in our home deserves that win.” The man next to Rogers (Wilson) added. “Not that anyone asked my opinion. Just putting it out there though, since you all told me to contribute more to the team.”

Stark blinked owlishly then rolled his eyes. “Fine, what’s another runaway with a ‘mysterious’ past and no problem killing people anyway? I should start a foundation or charity for it. You just keep collecting them all Katniss, but when you’re out of space on this floor that’s it. I don’t even know where you find all these kids.”

Barton smiled wanly. “It’s my mutant power.”

“I thought your aim was your mutant power. You know, ‘I never miss’?”

“We’ve talked about this Tony. I’m not a mutant just because I don't need a targeting system to do my job.”

With that the conversation seemed forgotten, or at least shelved. Jason watched as Stark launched into an argument with Barton while Thor proclaimed that he could use Asgardian magic to make 'Son of Coul and Hawkeye's floor larger', and eating resumed. The air was tense and no one looked completely comfortable; in fact he could tell they were carefully not looking in his direction.

He made his way into the kitchen where Wanda handed him a plate then gestured to what little space on the counters wasn't covered in food as if inviting him to sit. 

"Wow, could you have found him a tighter shirt?" Kate asked. She'd pushed the glasses up to rest on top of her head and was now staring at Jason unashamedly.

Pietro's eyes darted down quickly then back up to meet Jason's, eyebrow quirking. "Yes." 

"Well do that next time." She waggled her eyebrows. 

Jason couldn't quite stifle his laugh. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ensemble chapters are rough from Jason's PoV because he's just like 'Look at all these people I don't know  
> Anyway, in this chapter we had:  
> Jason Todd  
> Clint Barton-Hawkeye  
> Philip Coulson  
> Wanda Maximoff- Scarlet Witch  
> Pietro Maximoff- Quicksilver  
> Kate Bishop  
> Natasha Romanov- Black Widow  
> Sam Wilson- Falcon  
> Tony Stark-Ironman  
> Pepper Potts  
> Thor-Thor  
> Steve Rogers- Captain America


	5. The Chains Only Break Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason doesn’t react well to being watched. Bucky isn’t above sucker punches. They’re both basically children. No hard feelings though. On Asgard this is probably considered a proper introduction/offer of everlasting friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Trigger Warnings: Torture, as seen in Batman: Arkham Knight. [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OynvfhfsVWw)
> 
>  
> 
> A faster update to make up for all the time I took last time. Kind of a silly chapter, tbh.

 

5.

 

Jason woke up all at once, with none of the slowness or grogginess that some people had. He was asleep and then he was awake. He kept his eyes closed and focused on keeping his breathing slow and even, mimicking sleep.

He was a light sleeper for the most part, skimming the upper layers of sleep for just long enough to not get completely run down and always aware of what was going on around him. It wasn’t the most restful of states but-

There it was again, the noise that had woken him up, a soft creaking of wood and the rustle of fabric over fabric. It was was out of place, didn’t belong.

Coulson and Barton had tried to convince him to take one of the spare rooms to sleep in but he’d refused. The sentiment was nice enough but he liked being aware of what was going on, of who came and went, and he couldn’t do that down the hallway and behind two doors.

Out here, on the couch, he could see anyone who came out of the hallway and anyone who came onto the floor via the elevator. There was another point of entry, a balcony on the other wise of the floor to ceiling glass wall but Coulson seemed pretty confident that nothing short of the Hulk would get in that way without permission from Stark’s AI.

Or get out, and that had been added with a very pointed look at him.

Jason had decided he kind of liked Coulson, in so far as he liked anyone. He reminded him of Alfred; calm and unassuming, easily overlooked if you didn’t know better, but with a hard edge and quiet confidence.

Jason could admit that he missed the way things had been before. The manor, the city, being Robin, Dick, and even Bruce (in fact missing Bruce was part of the problem) but missing Alfred was the worst of it. He could tell himself Bruce had just needed a soldier and that Dick and Barbara had just tolerated him because they hadn’t had a choice but Alfred had never just tolerated him.

Another whisper of fabric over fabric.

He cracked one eye open, caught a glimmer of metal in the darkness, then closed it again. Just one person, with some kind of weapon, standing in the corner so about 12 feet. He was close enough to the kitchen, could get over the back of the couch and grab a knife in short order.

So much for his assumption that there wouldn’t be anyone trying to hurt him in here.

It did beg the question of how someone had gotten into what was supposed to be a pretty secure facility and all the way up to this floor.

He didn’t know exactly what kind of security had but he was willing to assume it was pretty good if the Avengers were willing to all converge in one place without worrying about someone just...blowing it up and taking them all out at once.

Probably someone who belonged in the tower then?

Well, whatever, he’d work it out later. The sort of person who’d stand around watching him sleep was firmly in the ‘stab first, talk later’ category.

Jason opened his eyes then was up, hands on the back of the couch, intending to lever himself over. He saw the glimmer of metal and realized that the other person was faster than he’d expected; fingers tangled in his hair, yanked him back and off of the couch.

He hit the wall hard, pain crawling up his back like the stinging of insects, and his vision shivered. There was strength there, a lot of it. He wasn’t exactly tiny, so tossing him around like that was impressive. And hurt. Couldn’t forget that.

He pushed off of the wall, ducked a swing from an arm that was made of rippling and flexing metal plates, and wow, okay, metal arms? That was just fucking cheating. He sidestepped another swing then turned and brought an elbow up, caught the guy in his jaw hard enough that most people would be reeling.

Metal-Arm didn’t even flinch and drove a fist, not the metal one, into his ribage. Jason fell back, choked back a cry of pain, kept his guard up. He was fairly confident that had cracked something.

Another swing, blocked, shove, punch, block, breathe, move, avoid the metal arm, jab, left hook, shoved back, breathe.

“Sergeant Barnes, Captain Rogers has been notified of your hostile actions.”

Metal arm jerked, eyes darting up and Jason lunged forward. Flowed to the side, caught a glancing blow to the chin, got in close. One arm around the man’s chest, a leg behind, pivoted and put all of his weight and momentum into the throw.

The coffee table splintered as Metal-Arm went through it. Jason almost followed; it had been a sloppy move and he could feel Bruce’s disapproval. Too much wasted movement, too much energy, too off balance, he left himself too open, wore himself out too fast.

He stumbled but managed to only go down to one knee.

Someone groaned and it may have been have been him but then light was flooding his vision. He blinked and squinted then, hearing a gun cock, turned around with exaggerated slowness, putting his hands up as he did.

Coulson and Barton were standing in the entrance of the hallway, the former with a handgun pointed in Jason’s direction. Barton looked decidedly confused and sleep rumpled, blond hair sticking up in odd directions. He moved his hands, forming shapes rapidly and Coulson frowned, shifted-

Everything closed in, narrowed, and Jason dropped into darkness.

\---

_One of Joker’s goons dragged him out, threw him in The Chair and bound him with barbed wire. He was out of it, knew he was out of it, sweating, heart beating too fast, breathing erratic; drugs he was...drugs in his system._

_He heard footsteps, picked his head up. He couldn’t see, there was a bag on his head. Joker was into that, taking away his vision and raining down blows randomly, delighting as Jason tensed and twitched and let out noises of surprised pain._

_“Batman? Is that you?”_

_He knew it wasn’t Batman. Knew the sound of Joker’s footsteps like he knew the sound of his own voice; it was about putting up a good front. Letting the psycho clown know he wasn’t broken._

_“Batman’s not coming to save you Robin.” The bag was wrenched from his head and tossed aside. Jason glared out of the corner of the eye that wasn’t swollen shut._

_“He’ll come.” And he believed that. Batman wouldn’t give up on him, would try to save him, would keep looking. Jason knew he was looking. He just...he just had to keep it together, not let the clown play with his head._

_He was better than this._

_“It’d been six months now. I think it’s time to face facts.” Joker’s voice was full of false sympathy and it burned like poison. He put his hands on Jason’s shoulders, starting to lean over him; Jason jerked forward, needing the man’s touch off of him._

_“Screw you!”_

_Joker giggled. “That’s the spirit. You’re a real chip off the ol’ Bat block. Not that it’ll do you any good.”_

_“Why won’t you just kill me?” The words spilled out and he regretted them as soon as they did. Bruce would be disappointed if he let the Joker break him; what kind of partner was he if he couldn’t survive this? He turned, trying to keep his eyes on the Joker as the man moved around behind him._

_At the very least he wished Joker would just get to part where he beat him until he could barely remember his name. Pain and blood and tears were familiar to Jason, he could understand those and deal with them. Joker’s taunts, the glaring reality of the fact he was still here. Six months._

_“What?” Joker laughed again, softer this time. “No no no no. I’m not going to kill you, not year anyway. You’re my sidekick now. Imagine it, you and me, out on the streets, starting fights, picking on the weak. A regular dynamic duo.”_

_Jason rolled his eyes behind his (somehow still intact) mask (He suspected Joker didn’t actually want to know who he was, who Batman was. It would ruin the fun.) and managed to not flinch when Joker touched him again. Joker stopped moving, bent down so his mouth was by Jason’s ear, words soft and teasing._

_“Just like Bats and that new kid of his.”_

_Jason shook his head. “No. He wouldn’t.”_

_Would he?_

_It had been six months._

_Jason had tried to escape so many times but he always ended up back where he’d started. He wasn’t good enough to get out on his own. Had Bruce decided that meant he wasn’t worth finding, worth saving? Wasn’t good enough to be his Robin._

_He wasn’t like Dick after all. He was brash and rough, made mistakes, too violent, never listened, that was why he was here now. He hadn’t listened and he’d gotten caught._

_No._

_Joker was just playing more games._

_“You think? So this isn’t Batman then?” Joker leaned over him again, waving a scrap of newspaper in his face. Jason’s eyes were drawn to it even as his mind screamed not to look. “Weird. The pointy ears are usually a dead give away.”_

_Batman stood on the roof of what must have been the police department judging by the fact Gordon was standing in front of him. At Batman’s side Robin. Smaller than Jason, smaller than Dick, bits of black where Jason was green, shorter cape with a hood added on but there was no mistake. It was Robin._

_A new Robin._

_He’d been replaced. He’d messed up, failed to correct his mistake, was in the Joker’s hands and...he’d been replaced._

_Batman wasn’t coming._

_He didn’t need him._

_Jason blinked, eyes burning._

_“I didn’t want to show you that photo, really I didn’t. But, well, it was the only way for you to get closure.” Joker was all sweetness and honey again, sympathetic and remorseful. He squeezed Jason’s shoulder not unkindly then crossed to stand in front of him, smiling. “Now I know it hurts but sometimes you gotta be cruel to be kind.”_

_He had the crowbar again and more than once Jason had smiled and laughed and asked him what the crowbar was all about anyway because Joker seemed oddly attached to it. This time he said nothing, just closed his eyes and waited for clown to start swinging._

_“It’s just you and me kid.”_

\---

Rogers was upset and wearing that pinched look of total devastation that did strange things to his chest, made it hard to breathe or hear around the parts of himself that were stupidly caught and wrapped up in Captain America.

The archer and the SHIELD director had been the first to show up; he’d known that would be the case. Stark’s AI, the upbeat feminine presence that he knew watched his every move, would lock down the rooms of the younger people who lived on the floor (the strange children the archer kept around) and notify those two of his presence first.

Rogers would be told next then Natalia and then the floor would be locked down to keep him from potentially escaping to somewhere else in the tower.

He was very aware of their ‘Winter Solider contingency’ plan. It wasn’t a great one, since it called for non-lethal measures but it was serviceable.

The director, Coulson, had been armed and looked prepared to shoot. He was certain that if Rogers hadn’t come barreling out of the elevator, looking very much in a panic, he would have gained a few new holes for sneaking that hit in while the redhead was distracted. The archer looked angry enough to attack and he knew that if the archer made a move Coulson would follow.

The redhead, the one he’d come up to take a look at, had been...interesting. He’d woken up and realized he was being watched, which was impressive. Stealth and staying perfectly still in order to watch his targets was what he was good at, but he’d been detected.

He would have to ask how when the redhead was less...unconscious.

He hadn’t expected a fight either but the redhead had tried vaulting over the couch, probably going for a weapon (that’s what he could have done anyway) and he’d reacted without thought, training taking over.

Stop, disable, then asses.

The redhead had gotten a read on him quickly, avoiding his Other arm at the expense of the letting the flesh and bone arm connect a few times. He fought like someone who’d been fighting a long time; he was fast, his movements practiced and with a lot of power behind him. He’d gotten some hits in and each one had been brutal, nothing held back.

All in all it’s been no more than 45 seconds between grabbing the redhead and getting slammed through the table. Which shouldn’t have happened; Stark’s AI had mentioned Rogers and he’d been...distracted.

Nothing new where Rogers was concerned.

Speaking of, Rogers was not happy with him. He’d come out of the elevator, taken in him crouching in the ruins of the table, the knocked out redhead, and the gun aimed at him before rushing forward. He’d grabbed him and shoved him back into a wall, crowding into his space and putting a hand to his chest like he thought he needed to be held in place or that a single arm would keep him there if he didn’t want to be.

“What are you doing up here?”

He blinked, noted the flared nostrils, the red flush along Roger’s skin, the eyes that were hard and sad. His stomach twisted and he felt.

Felt.  

He frowned, working on reading Rogers so he could figure out the proper response to get that look off of his face. The part of him that was Bucky wanted to reach out, pull Roger’s down, sooth that look away with-

The redhead screamed. It was sudden, with no lead up, and sounded like it was being forced out from somewhere deep and hurt, the kind of scream that left a throat raw. Not the scream of the dying, but the scream of someone who wanted to be dead.

He couldn’t remember how he knew that; had he made those noises or had he forced them out of someone?

The redhead’s mouth shut with an audible click and a hand came up to cover his mouth, chest heaving. For a moment the scream was only muffled, too much to stop all at once, and then it was gone, swallowed down and forced back where it had come from. He sat up, eyes brimming with confusion and panic as he looked around.

"Where-"

Rogers opened his mouth. Shut it. Looked over at Barton who was crouched over the redhead and seemed to be alternating between worry and murderous on a second by second basis.

“Jason?” Coulson said carefully, coming up behind Barton.

The redhead's hand drifted away from his mouth, which was pulled back in a toothy grimace. He looked momentarily horrified then embarrassed and, finally, settled on angry.

“You fucking sucker punched me.” It was a deflection and an obvious one at that. He wanted to focus on something other that whatever had happened to make his eyes so wide and afraid.

He didn’t like that look. It pushed at a memory, something he kept pushed down and hidden away far under the ice.

He responded without realizing he was doing it, the words coming from him but not him, exactly, a trace of an accent that he’d had once in his voice. “You threw me through a table.”

The redhead’s, Jason, look was hot with rage and accusation. The skin along his chin, just under where a ‘J’ shaped burn scar marred his face, was already bruising. “After you threw me into a wall!”

He blinked then frowned, some part of him feeling indignant at the words. He hadn’t intended to fight after all and Ste-Rogers was already mad enough without some punk kid making things worse. “You were going for a weapon.”

Green eyes narrowed then Jason looked away, lips twisted into a frown. “Prove it. And you were watching me sleep. Figured you were some kind of weird pervert and I stab perverts. I’m just putting that out there for future consideration.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” The hand on his chest fell away as Rogers shifted back, looking faintly bewildered. “You’re from what, Jersey? I've never sunk that low.”

Jason looked scandalized; the tension in his shoulders drained out and his lips twitched. It was much better than eyes blown wide with fear. “Look Fullmetal-" Barton choked. "Gotham is not Jersey. It's...New Jersey adjacent.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know what to do with the faint stirring of amusement inside of him, and settled on laughing. It was familiar, from a outsider perspective as if it was the laugh of someone he'd known once, but _feltsounded_ strange coming from his mouth. Rogers made a noise, looked at him with open wonder.

“Children, please.” Coulson said, looking tired. “Just. Medical. Get checked out. Friday, release the lockdown.”  

“Floor lockdown ended.” The AI chirped.

"I'm fine." Jason said, rolling his eyes. "He doesn't even hit that hard." 

He was herded to the elevator, a retort on the tip of his tongue, Rogers’ hand a firm weight on his shoulder. He didn’t see any point in going to medical; his back hurt but he’d had much worse before. This wasn’t worthy of medical intervention, of the use of resources.

He wasn’t-

“What were you doing up here?” Rogers asked, voice low and urgent.

He found himself shrugging, unsure of how to explain or how much he should let out. There were some things he could say that would ease the other's mind, make Rogers lose his sad expression, and there were things he could say that would tip it in the other direction, break him apart.

“I like to know who’s here and who’s watching your back. Can’t trust you to just anyone.” Is what he settled on. That's what Bucky would have said. 

Rogers stared at him, thoughts written all over his face. He didn’t understand how a man who showed so much and struggled with his emotions so plainly could be allowed to lead. Then Rogers smiled, a fleeting half smile that spoke of frustration and hurt.

“You afraid I’m looking for a replacement?” The tone was playful but his eyes were serious, gave away how important giving the proper answer was.

He cocked his head to the side thoughtfully, carefully considering the question, and knew when he saw Rogers flinch out of the corner of his eye that he wasn’t actually supposed to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically Children. 
> 
> Next chapter: Some people want to talk about what they're going to do with Jason. Clint is not one of those people. Neither is Steve. Bucky and Jason are in trouble.


	6. Needles and Knives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks around* Whoo. Sorry. I’ve been churning out these Jason/Pietro ficlets for a 30dayOTP challenge and semi-functional Jason and amazingly functional in comparison to Jason Pietro lured me away from not nearly as functional Bucky and Jason but I am back.

The sun was coming up, Jason hadn’t managed any sleep, and he’d smoked his way through more cigarettes in one night that he usually indulged in over the course of a week. (Jason had smoked when he was younger, quit as Robin because Bruce was a full on ‘your body is your greatest asset, treat it well’ hippie, and then picked it up again because it was easily the most normal vice he had and sometimes he need a little normal. He wasn’t particularly worried about smoking killing him but then wouldn’t that be just his luck?)

He cast a sideways look at Barnes, who was looking out of the window they’d opened up to let smoke out, and couldn’t help but think that he was really having a hell of a day. Shot a guy, got picked up by the Avengers, people watching him sleep, a fun little tussle, getting knocked flat on his back, a trip to the medical wing, and now this.

Dr. Bruce Banner (the mousey looking guy from earlier) and Widow had already been in medical, both looking put out. Widow had been wearing a men’s buttondown shirt and not much else but something in her expression had almost been daring him to look anywhere other than her face and he’d opted to not rise to the bait. Banner had looked very...rumpled and seemed to have lost his shirt somewhere.

Jason had a pretty good idea of where that might have been but he managed to keep it to himself after a warning look from Barton.

Rogers and Barton had practically fallen over themselves apologizing before Banner had finally sent them to their respective ‘corners’; Barton in a chair at his side and Rogers two beds down at Barnes’, aka metal hand, side.

Widow had tended to Barnes, hovering behind him with a pair of tweezers and digging out bits of shattered table. He’d been delighted at first, glad he wasn’t the only one suffering, but the other man hadn’t shown any signs of discomfort, not even wincing or frowning once. Worse he’d just sat there, staring ahead vacantly like some kind of creepy doll.

A kind of scruffy kind of hot doll with some really nasty looking scars around where metal arm met skin, and Jason was kind of an expert on scars so ‘nasty looking’ by his standards was pretty serious. It was a mass of raised and twisted flesh, spider webbing out from his shoulder and over his chest.

Whatever had ended up with him sporting that monster of an arm had been serious business. Then again Jason couldn’t think of any situation where a person walked away without their arm that wasn’t serious, so there was that.

His ribs turned out to be fractured, according to Dr. Banner, and he couldn’t help but be very aware of it once the adrenaline, righteous indignation, and embarrassment faded. Because seriously, getting knocked out and then waking up screaming like some kind of scared little kid? Just fucking shameful. Everything in Gotham had really done a fucking number on his head; nightmares, occasional maybe hallucinations, and now this.

It hurt to move, hurt to sit still, hurt to fucking breathe. He didn’t say anything about it, sat patiently and forced himself to take normal breaths while Dr. Banner looked at his x-rays and muttered about ‘not really being this kind of doctor either.’

There wasn’t much to do for him, other than tell him to try to sleep sitting upright, keep breathing normally, and no, you absolutely can’t have a cigarette what’s wrong with you? Jason had already known all of that so basically nothing of value was gained.

Stark had shown up, looking wide awake and like someone had peed in his cheerios. He’d taken Rogers and Barton aside and there had been words that Jason wasn’t close enough to hear but there was lots of pointing and hand waving and sheepish shrugging.

Pain pills were offered and refused with a snide ‘Who needs painkillers for fractured ribs?’. Banner had looked exasperated but hadn’t bothered arguing, just sweeping the room with a look that seemed to say ‘great, another one’.

In the end he and Barnes ended up being told to stay put for the night so the veritable stable of machines around could keep an eye on them just in case of concussions or sudden internal bleeding. Jason was pretty sure it was unnecessary but it would be just his luck to turn out to be bleeding from a punctured or ruptured something and die after everything he’d managed to not die from.

Stark said something about maybe handcuffing to their beds or sedating them to make sure no more damage was done. Jason was pretty sure he didn’t imagine Barnes snapping out of his apparent stupor to shoot Rogers a pleading look. He hadn’t reacted much better, breath hitching as he instinctively drew back from Banner, half expecting the man to pull a needle of from somewhere.

Stupid reaction, weak, gave away too much, but he was already in a situation that was out of his control, he didn’t want to add sedatives or restraints on top of that.

An awkward silence had followed before Banner had started kicking everyone out, claiming his patients needed rest, not tone deaf jokes and babying. He’d ordered Stark’s AI to go into eyes only mode and to only take action if they became violent, vitals became abnormal, or they tried to leave. Rogers had protested the most and the last thing Jason heard before the elevator shut on them was ‘I do not mother hen!’.

He spared a look towards Barnes who had flopped onto his stomach and looked perfectly inclined to just ignore him. That was fine by him.

His bed was set up so he was sitting at a slight incline and while normally he could sleep in just about any position, up to and including hanging from restraints and while being forced to stand for long periods of time, he was pretty sure it wasn't going to be happening any time soon. There was a TV built into the wall directly across from him and he was looking around for the remote, figuring some background noise that wasn’t beeping wouldn’t be so bad, when a flash of color out the corner of his eye had him tossing himself to the side.

And swore loudly as pain flared in his side.

Something red and white hit the bed next to where his thigh had been, crinkling when he shifted his weight. He looked back at Barnes who was exactly as he’d been before, flat on his stomach with no indication he was even aware Jason was there. He groped for the package, trying not to bend or twist, and knew what it was as soon as his fingers brushed the thin cellophane.

Well hello.

“You got a ligh-” He looked to find Barnes already had his hand up, a lighter in hand. “I like you more already.” There were windows along the back of the room, past the bed Barnes was on and Jason wasn’t so rude as to smoke indoors without cracking a window.

He beelined back there and pushed a window open, half afraid it would set off an alarm or Stark’s AI would kick on and scold him. Frigid winter air blew in, ruffling his hair, and Jason sighed, leaning forward and poking his head out.

Avengers tower was all smooth glass and hard angels, no ledges or decent handholds and there had to be at least eighty floors up. Jason was good and would put his ability to scale a building without gear against anyone else’s but he wouldn’t be trying it today.

Might as well hang out until his ribs were less busted, right?

He pulled his head back in, intended to walk back and get the lighter, but found Barnes standing behind him, not exactly lurking in the darker parts of the space but not exactly not lurking.

He couldnt help but reminded that Barnes had been hanging around, watching him sleep, a few hours before.

Joker used to watch him sleep. Well at first Jason hadn’t been sleeping much, unable to find any rest while being held captive or constantly watched. But his body would force sleep on him eventually and he’d wake up most ‘days’ to the Joker watching him, drinking in any signs of weakness, desperate to find cracks and burrow in.

And then the pain would start.

He looked down at the package in his hand, pushing out a breath. The cellophane was torn in some spots, the package was crumpled and squashed, like it had been handled and carried in someone’s pocket for a while. In spite of that the red strip and the foil were still intact.

“You saving these for something?” He asked idly, pulling off the plastic.

Barnes glanced at him, blue eyes hazy. “I don’t know. I think I used to smoke, once. Been carrying them around.”

He sounded unsure of himself, speaking carefully as if trying out the words, and Jason couldn’t help but shift on his feet, uncomfortable. He pulled out the foil and shook out a cigarette then held out his hand for the lighter. It was a zippo, made of cool metal, and when he rubbed his thumb over the front he felt something etched into the surface. When he held it to his face and and brought it to life he could see a stylized wing pattern had been scratched crudely into it. He breathed in, watching paper catch and turn orange, burning slowly. Smoke rolled over his tongue, tasting a little sweet and a little burnt, and his lungs and chest became painfully tight.

He looked over at Barnes again then held out the lighter and package. He dropped them into the other man’s hands then leaned back out the window, letting the chill sink in, and exhale, coughing as pain prickled up his side again.

He groaned and rubbed at the sore area, more annoyed than anything else. Barnes moved behind him then stepped beside him, in front of the window, lit cigarette smoking between his fingers.

“Sorry.” And damn if he didn’t sound sorry and look a little bit like a kicked puppy waiting to be kicked again. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He inhaled slowly, watching as ash formed and drifted away.

Jason had been in more than a few fights in his time, even before becoming Robin he’d had to fight. He’d fought his father, he’d fought his father’s friends and ‘business associates’ when they’d come sniffing around him or his mother, he’d fought with cops, and he’d fought the less savory denizens of Crime Alley. By the time Bruce had picked him up he’d known how defend himself, how to roll with a hit, and when it was safer to just cover his head and take the beating.

Fighting was just kind of what Jason did. It came to him as naturally as breathing did. Things went bad and he responded with his fists.

Which was why he didn’t necessarily take being knocked out personally. If he held a grudge every time someone hit him he’d be angry at the world and he was already so damn angry he wasn’t sure he could take adding more to it because, apparently, something about him just screamed ‘hurt me, please.’

Maybe his winning personality.

“It happens.”

\--

 

Tony was adamant that they have a team meeting the next day. Clint wasn’t sure if it was about the broken coffee table or the fact that medical now smelled like cigarette smoke or that Bruce had been all kinds of annoyed to find his patients sitting around shirtless, smoking in front of an open window.

Either way Clint wasn’t really looking forward to it. Tony had already expressed his displeasure the night before, with much arm waving and demanding that they get better control of their pet projects because having a bunch of dead but not dead people around was enough of a PR nightmare without them kicking the shit out of each other.

Which was Tony speak for ‘We’re running a lot of risks here harboring a former Hydra assassin, two former Sokovian freedom fighters-slash-terrorists, and now this other kid and infighting is something we just don’t need to go along with it.’

Except that was far too close to reasonable so Tony would never phrase it like that and odds were he wouldn’t approach the conversation reasonably either. Tony just didn’t do reasonable, he liked to put on a show and Clint could respect that, he’d been a showman once, but it could be tedious.

Beyond that he was pretty sure Tony was going to insist that they contact Jason’s ‘family’ and Clint couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. This was a kid barely old enough to drink with scars stretching back years, probably since childhood. Fingers out of place, knots on his knuckles, crooked nose, burn scars, slash marks, gunshot wounds, stab wounds...a veritable roadmap of violence. Clint didn’t know ‘Bruce Wayne’ beyond that he was super rich and supposedly a Tony Stark before being help captive level douchebag, but he knew you didn’t send a kid as messed up as Jason back where he came from and hope it just went better the second time around.

He could tell, as he shuffled into Tony’s workshop because that’s just where he liked to conduct business, that Steve was feeling the same as he was.

He felt bad for Steve; Cap looked like he’d had a hell of a night. He hadn’t even known the man could look exhausted but he certainly did; eyes bloodshot, hair out of black, dark smudges under his eyes, and a very intense frown curving his lips. He clearly hadn’t slept at all, not that Clint could blame him.

Bucky had been haunting the tower like a ghost, bound to the floor he shared with Steve and Sam, never going any further unless Steve accidentally ordered him to. He didn’t speak unless told to, didn’t socialize unless told to, didn’t even appear to have wants or needs beyond following Steve’s occasional orders.

And the one time he gets up and goes somewhere on his own, exercises some free will, and it ends in violence. Not exactly a good first showing considering Steve was trying to prove to all of them that Bucky could be more than what Hydra had made him.

On the other hand it seemed like he was fine now, or least as fine as he ever was. Bruce had reported that no one had killed each other and they seemed to be getting along pretty well, if smoking and looking maudlin together was ‘pretty well’. Considering that at least 25% of his and Natasha’ friendship had involved sitting around drinking, ranting, and trying not to drown in self pity Clint was willing to go so far as to say that yes, that counted as getting along.

“Alright kids.” Tony swept in after Clint and pushed the door closed. “I trust everyone had a good night.”

Thor, the only who had actually not had their night disrupted, beamed at Tony. “A fantastic night. I was able to speak to my Lady Jane with your Skype and it was most satisfying.”

“I’m glad someone had a good time last night.” Natasha said, voice all honey and fake sincerity. Thor turned to her, frowning sympathetically.

“Was your evening not a favorable one?”

“It started well,” Clint imagined they were all doing their absolute best to not look at Bruce. “But it ended with me picking little bits of woods out of Steve’s boyfriend’s back.”

Normally that would have gotten a blush and a protest but this time Steve just yawned widely and slouched deeper into his chair.

Tony waited, frowning at Steve as if disappointed, then turned to Bruce. “How are those two doing anyway?”

“Fine. Disobeying basically every single thing I told them to do.” He took off his glasses, rubbing at the lenses. “Par for the course around here. I don’t know why you all don’t just give up the pretense of seeking actual medical care and jump straight to slapping duct tape and cotton balls on all of your injuries.”

“But tell us how you really feel.” Pietro looked positively gleeful. That was a kid who enjoyed the discomfort of others just a little bit too much. He walked a very fine line between ‘harmless prankster’ and ‘asshole’. Wanda shoved him lightly, eyes flaring red. Pietro shut his mouth and wiped all traces of humor from his face.

Clint was pretty sure the twins would be unbearable as individuals, but together they were blessedly self-policing.

“Anyway, children, we have a problem.” Tony reached for his holographic tablet. “Specifically with Clint’s new stray cat. Even more specifically that, as of 2am, he doesn’t exist anywhere.”

Tony said it with a flourish, like he expected a reaction beyond the tired stares he got. He scowled. “You all suck the fun out of everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: What is Tony talking about even and why should we care? Bucky and Jason continue to skulk around the tower while other people do productive things.


End file.
